


Spread Thin

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Drugs, Mental Instability, sort of, suicide ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boredom is rage spread thin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spread Thin

**Author's Note:**

> Quote from Paul Tillich.
> 
> Very short drabble, please be advised there are some unhappy themes in this.

The boredom is crippling. It tears him down the most base of his being, strips off the carefully selected layers of his outer being and leaves him just. Raw.

When he wakes up he lies in bed for approximately eleven minutes and thirty seven seconds every morning, wondering why today should be any different. Wondering why he should continue to try. And when he does finally find the energy to carry on, to get up, to piss or eat or check his email, every nerve in his body aches and tugs as if they’re too old to carry on. They’re not too old. Sherlock is fairly certain he is one of the few humans who will never live to be “too old”.

Going to bed, when he bothers, it just as painful. He lies for hours staring at the ceiling, or the peeling wall paper to the side of his head, wondering why he should bother falling asleep when all that lies before him is a large expanse of boredom. Never ending boredom with no solution, no cure.  

Well, that’s a lie.

There is a solution – a sort of short-term cure. An old friend, he thinks, without humour, as he thinks of the small baggie that’s been taped to this inside of Billy’s cranium for years now. Cocaine from his twenties probably wouldn’t be the best decision right now, God knows how the stuff ages, but cocaine from last night wouldn’t be so hard to find. London, at night, is the Tesco’s supermarket of illegal drugs.

He could probably leave right now, walk down to Regents Park and return home with a rucksack full of anything he wanted. Ketamine, cocaine, marijuana, heroin. It’s all there. As long as you know where to look.

Tonight, though, he feels like drugs aren’t the answer to what can only be described as his insatiable boredom. This constant itch beneath his skin. They might sharpen (or cloud) his mind for a moment, offer some sort of temporary reprieve, but much like night is followed by day, a high is always followed by a low. He could shoot up now, plunge a needle into that pulsing vein in his left arm, but later all that will remain is a throbbing headache and the same boredom as he began with. Illegal highs, like life, are fleeting.

The distant idea that a good wank might ease the jittering of his nerves for a moment is soon thrown out of the window with the proverbial coke baggie, and although sex with a stranger might come along with that slight buzz of danger it’s nothing Sherlock’s not used to.

This boredom is nothing like before.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you.


End file.
